


Night Train

by moonblossom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, M/M, PWP, Semi-Public Sex, Smut, Trains
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 13:22:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock gets bored on a long, quiet train trip. He finds a way to amuse himself and drags John along for the ride.</p><p>"Shenanigans on a train. Kind of like Snakes on a Plane, but sexier" - belovedmuerto</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night Train

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this while on the train from Montreal to Baltimore. If you follow me on tumblr, do keep an eye out for a cameo at the end.
> 
> Thanks to lovey for reading this over - in person!

The midnight landscape out the window is charming, pastoral, idyllic, and a hundred other adjectives that all mean the same thing: _dull, dull, dull_. It had been John's silly idea to take the train up to Edinburgh for the weekend, and Sherlock is bored out of his skull.

"Sherlock, if all you're going to do is complain about the view, stop looming over me to stare out the window. Your hands are bony and they're digging into my leg." Sherlock scowls at John, but acquiesces and sits up straight, keeping himself mostly in his own seat.

It's late, and the train carriage is empty; it's both a blessing and a curse. There are no insufferable idiots blathering away on their mobiles or talking to each other about sports or relationships or any of the equally banal things people tend to talk about on trains. But there's also nothing to do. Nobody to study. Nothing to deduce about people.

Sherlock sighs dramatically and catches John grinning at him out of the corner of his eye.

"Why don't you curl up and take a nap or something? We've got three more hours to go."

"Nap? Really John. How long have you known me? I can barely sleep at night even with you curled up beside me. You honestly expect me to nap here?"

John raises one shoulder in an eloquent shrug and goes back to staring out the window. "Suit yourself. I think I'm going to try to get a bit of sleep, myself." John stands and steps over Sherlock's long legs and stretches, reaching for a blanket in the overhead compartment. As he does so his jumper pulls up slightly, and Sherlock takes a moment to appreciate the thin sliver of skin on John's stomach, the downy trail of fair hair disappearing into his waistband. John's body, compact and unassuming and yet so incredibly agile and dangerous, is an endless source of fascination for Sherlock. Even after all this time, the novely of it has never worn off. Rather the opposite, Sherlock delights in discovering new things about it. Scars, birthmarks, ticklish spots, they all end up filed away in the enormous room of Sherlock's memory devoted to John.

He's about to reach out and stroke the glimpse of flesh when John clambers over him again and settles down, and the opportunity is lost. John rests his head against the window and pulls the blanket up to his chin. Sherlock feels a jagged pang in his chest, something warm and protective. It's entirely irrational - it's not as though John can't protect himself, but it's not unwelcome.

John smiles at him and Sherlock realises he's probably been grinning at John this whole time. He shakes his head, trying to clear the mental image of John's taut stomach, still slightly tanned from helping Mrs. Hudson in the back garden a while ago. He'd gotten overheated and taken off his shirt, and Sherlock had amused himself by hanging out the window and ogling him, and making sarcastic remarks the whole time.

Now Sherlock's mind is flooded with memories of John, shirtless and glistening with sweat. Which is doing absolutely nothing to help clear his mind. He turns his head and sees John staring at him, a slight smirk playing on his lips. It's as if he knows what Sherlock is thinking. Which is entirely unfair. It's Sherlock's place to know what John is thinking, not vice-versa.

Sherlock shifts uncomfortably in his seat. It's not as if he has to hide his burgeoning arousal from anyone, since the carriage is still empty, but it's still mildly unpleasant to be such a slave to his body's whims. He tries to focus on less interesting things, but his eyes keep finding their way back to John. He's not asleep, but he's relaxed and boneless, eyes closed and mouth lightly open. Almost the way he looks after they've -- no, this is most definitely not helping. And then, as if the universe is playing a clever joke on Sherlock, John's tongue darts out and lightly traces his bottom lip. It's a habit Sherlock found both annoying and endearing at first, but now it's as if that tongue has a direct line to his groin.

He groans, prick growing ever thicker and straining against the tight, flat front of his trousers. Irritatbly, he yanks one corner of the blanket off John and tugs it over his lap. John rolls his head towards Sherlock and opens one eye.

"I thought you said you weren't going to nap."

"I'm not. My legs are cold. The climate control in this car is rubbish."

John snorts out a laugh. Under the cover of the blanket, Sherlock squirms. Subtly, slowly, hoping John won't notice, he lowers the fly of his trousers. Just enough to loosen the front, to give his prick some space until it stops having a filthy mind of its own.

Suddenly, Sherlock has an epiphany. They're alone. It's late. They're in the middle of nowhere. There are no houses or platforms anywhere near the train for at least another hour. Sighing in anticipated relief, he prods John in the ribs.

"What, you berk? I'm trying to sleep, remember?"

"I'm bored."

"Yes, I figured that one out a while ago."

"We're alone."

"Astute observation there, Sherlock. You're at the top of your game today."

Something about John's fond snarkiness only serves to make Sherlock's situation worse, and his cock throbs in an interested manner.

"We're _alone_." Sherlock drops his voice into the rumbling register he knows makes John weak in the knees. For a moment John just blinks in confusion, and then his expression sharpens, a familiar light in his eyes. Sherlock seizes the opportunity to grab John's hand under the blanket and press it firmly against his growing erection. A quiet groan escapes his lips as John pulls his hand away sharply.

"Oh no, no you don't. The conductor could walk through here at any moment. Someone could see in through the windows."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "We're in the last carriage. There's no reason for the conductor to come back here unless we make a ruckus. I promise to be very, very quiet. And who could possibly see us out here? A cow? Are you worried about livestock catching a free show?"

John lets out a long breath, and Sherlock can tell he's weighing the relative merits and flaws in Sherlock's plan. It's only a matter of time before he gives in. Sherlock's more than happy to encourage him.

He leans over, pressing a light kiss to the soft, fragrant skin below John's ear. His pulse is already light and rapid, a good sign. He traces it with his tongue, relishing the sharp taste of sweat and pheromones and shampoo and _John_. For his part, John has already let his head fall to the side, and Sherlock knows the battle is won.

As he continues to kiss and lick the broad expanse of John's throat, he finds John's hand under the blanket and guides it back to his erection. Seemingly unaware of what he's doing, John wraps his hand around the prominence, through the cotton of Sherlock's pants, and strokes gently a couple of times. That's all it takes to bring him to full, desperate hardness and he rocks his hips upwards, grinding himself against John's hand.

"Nnngh," the noise that escapes John's lips is somewhere between a word and a groan. "You filthy bugger."

Sherlock smirks, dragging his lips against the moist skin of John's neck. "Me?" he murmurs, mock-innocent. "I'm not the one with my hand down some strange bloke's trousers in a train carriage in the middle of the night."

It's at this point that John seems to realise it's well and truly a lost cause, because he slips his hand into Sherlock's pants and starts stroking his fingers around the head of Sherlock's prick, tracing his fingers through the bead of moisture he finds there. Sherlock lets out a whimper and bucks up again, desperately seeking more contact.

"You utter arse. You're going to owe me for this." John pulls his hand abruptly out of Sherlock's trousers and he lets out an entirely undignified whine. For a moment he thinks John's won this round, but he relaxes when he realises what's going on. John's brought his hand up to his mouth, and he's licking the traces of pre-come off his thumb and forefinger. The sight makes Sherlock's erection twitch again, violently enough that it's visible through the blanket in his lap.

Grinning, John makes a show of thoroughly licking his hand, tongue thrusting obscenely between his fingers as he soaks them along with his palm. His hand glistens in the dim light of the train, and for a moment Sherlock debates throwing any remaining caution to the wind and dumping the blanket on the floor, but he has the presence of mind to stop himself.

He does, however, gently lift it up so John can slide back under it without the blanket absorbing any of the slick spit on his hand. Sherlock also takes a moment to shimmy his pants and trousers down just enough to give John more room. He's so worked up that even the elastic waistband of his pants, tucked snugly under his scrotum, feels absolutely wicked and delicious.

"John, hurry up and touch me!" He's trying to sound imperious and in-control, but he's fully aware it's coming off as needy and desperate instead. Whether out of pity, desire, or some combination of the two, John complies, finally wrapping his slick hand completely around the girth of Sherlock's prick.

He moans as John squeezes him comfortingly, the sound echoing around the empty carriage. As he brings his hips up to thrust against the tight circle of John's fingers, the train tracks pass over some rough terrain. The whole carriage jiggles and jostles, adding yet another element to the layers of sensation threatening to overwhelm Sherlock. John's hand is trembling slightly, rocking with the motion, and Sherlock's body quivers, entirely unrelated to the shimmy of the train.

Apparently emboldened by the muffled noises Sherlock is making, John tightens his grip and pumps Sherlock's cock firmly. Once, twice, and stops. Sherlock breathes through his nose, trying to calm himself, trying not to beg. He holds his hips still, forcing himself against the rough upholstery of the seat.

Sherlock sucks in another breath, taking control of his faculties, only to be undone yet again as John traces his fingertips, feather-light, up the length of his shaft. When he gets to the head, he slides the foreskin up and down, up and down and runs his thumb over the glans. Sherlock's leaking in earnest now, and John slides his thumb around and around, spreading the fluid he finds there.

The contact is maddening, every touch an electric crackle up Sherlock's spine, but it's not enough. So far removed from enough. Eventually, Sherlock decides that his dignity is less important than his desire right now. He leans over again and nips at John's earlobe.

"John Hamish Watson, if you don't make me come immediately I will smother you with a pillow once we get to our hotel. And I know how to hide the evidence." Sherlock's voice is ragged, his throat raw and dry. He opens his eyes and studies John's face, a slow, satisfied smirk creeping across it.

Without any warning aside from his expression, John changes tack. He tightens his grip and starts stroking Sherlock, hard and fast, twisting his wrist on every upstroke. After years of practice, he knows Sherlock's body, knows exactly what to do to make him scream. And scream he does - a thin, wavery wail reverberates through the train, echoing and amplified by the empty space. 

In a feeble attempt to stifle himself, Sherlock bites down on his lower lip. John, however, has a better idea. Clever, clever John. He grips the tiny curls at the back of Sherlock's neck with his free hand, sending a thrill of goosebumps down his spine, and pulls him in for a filthy, sweltering kiss. It's a messy clash of teeth and tongues, and all the better for it. Sherlock moans sharply again, but this time it's drowned by John's mouth. 

Sherlock's entire existence narrows down to a single point, eyes shut tightly against the impending grey blur of his orgasm. John sucks on his tongue - hard - and the fire coiled tight in Sherlock's belly rocks loose. Spots of light burst behind his eyelids, his heart shudders and for a moment he'd swear it stops entirely. He's vaguely aware of wave after wave of come pulsing from his cock, spilling onto John's hand, onto the blanket, onto his clothing.

Startled when he's aware they haven't broken the kiss, Sherlock gasps, trying to steal air from John's mouth. John pulls away, leaving Sherlock cold and bereft, but grateful for the flood of oxygen to his brain. He sits up, shirt clinging uncomfortably to his sweaty back, and half-heartedly wipes himself clean with the blanket.

John chuckles and squeezes Sherlock's hand. "Better?"

"Infinitely." It comes out as a dry croak, and Sherlock coughs, trying to clear his throat.

"Good, glad to hear it. Never thought you'd be the insatiable one, but lord knows I don't mind. You're gorgeous when you're having an orgasm. I'll have to remember that face later tonight."

Sherlock, more composed now, raises an eyebrow. "Why later tonight?"

"Because I'm bloody worked up now, Sherlock. I'm going to have to have a serious wank as soon as we get checked into the hotel, and then I'm probably going fuck you into the mattress as soon as I'm done."

Despite the fact that he's limp and spent, and Sherlock's refractory period has never been particularly impressive, his penis gives an interested twitch at the words coming out of John's mouth. Certainly not on its way to another erection, but the sensation is still unexpected and Sherlock shivers slightly. He studies John's face, blotchy and flushed, his eyes bright under heavy hooded lids. He casts a quick glance down to John's lap, eyeing an erection massive and impressive even under cover of the heavy blanket. Surely that can't be comfortable, and John's been so kind and indulgent tonight.

Without a second thought, Sherlock curls up awkwardly on his own chair and ducks under the blanket, resting his head on John's thigh. The blanket casts everything into shadow, but there's still enough ambient light to see what he's doing. He fumbles with John's fly in his eagerness, but manages to get it open. His cock is already rock hard, a dark wet spot at the head soaking through the cotton of John's pants.

Sherlock eagerly parts his lips, pressing a sloppy kiss right on the wet spot, soaking it further and tonguing John through the damp fabric. John moans, strangely muffled through the blanket. The angle he's at is awkward, and he won't be able to take John's entire length into his throat like this, but Sherlock is nothing if not clever and resourceful.

He frees John's erection, tugging his pants down as far as he can get them. Taking no time to tease or luxuriate in the contact, he swallows the tip of John's cock, flushed and bulbous, and wraps his hand tightly around the base. He purses his lips around the flared edge of the head of John's prick, and is rewarded with a hiss and a low grunt.

As John shifts his weight, rocking his hips slightly, his thighs part. Taking this as an invitation, Sherlock loosens his lips slightly, allowing the moisture from his mouth to drip down the length of John's shaft, onto his own fingers.

Once his hand is good and slick, he pumps a few times for good measure, fingers coming up to meet his lips as his head bobs up and down. John's erection is glorious in his hand, iron covered in velvet. 

Relinquishing his grip on John's erection, Sherlock traces one slick finger along John's scrotum, stroking the puckered seam down the centre, before bringing his hand back up to press firmly on John's perineum. As his finger glides towards John's puckered arsehole, John hisses sharply.

"Ohhhh, christ. Sherlock!" John bucks up as Sherlock's finger finds its mark, and the blanket falls away, exposing Sherlock's head. He glances up with one eye, admiring the ecstatic grimace on John's face. He's biting his lip, presumably to keep himself quiet.

Spurred on, Sherlock puckers his lips tighter, sliding them up and down the few inches of John's cock that he can get to at this angle. His finger lightly circles John's anus, teasing the delicate skin. He increases the suction of his mouth, hollowing his cheeks and guiding John's glans into the curve of his palate. As he does so, John relaxes just enough to allow Sherlock's finger to slide into him. He thrusts his finger slowly, gently, all the while increasing the pace of his mouth on John's prick. 

John's fingers are buried in Sherlock's hair, tugging just enough to cause pleasurable little tingles across his scalp when almost without warning, he is coming, spilling bittersweet into Sherlock's eager mouth. Sherlock rolls his tongue, pressing against John's fraenulum, keeping him tottering on the edge of _toomuchtoomuchnotenough_ , coaxing every last drop from him. 

"Fuck, Sherlock. Fuck fuck fuck."

He relinquishes his grip on Sherlock's hair, and Sherlock sits up, gasping for air for the second time that night. John looks absolutely lovely, dishevelled and sated. He leans back in his seat, breathing heavily as he wrestles with his clothing. Feeling generous, Sherlock gently tucks John's softening prick away in his pants and carefully does up the zip on his trousers before sitting up properly and taking care of his own clothing.

They've just managed to catch their breath and calm themselves when the door between the carriages open, and the conductor walks in.

In his current state of mind, even the conductor looks filthy. He's got a tan that's clearly come out of a bottle - albeit a high-end one, wearing a pair of aviator sunglasses Sherlock would normally find asinine, with facial hair that looks scruffy but is obviously impeccably groomed. He looks as though he belongs on the set of an adult film, not commanding a train.

He nods at John and Sherlock. "Everything alright in here, lads?"

John coughs and flushes, and Sherlock elbows him in the ribs. "Never better. Thank you sir."

"You two have a good night."

Sherlock smirks and merely grunts a vague acknowledgement.


End file.
